


We Never Speak of This Again

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Complicated Relationships, Drunk Sex, Feelings, Hook-Up, Hotel Sex, M/M, mention of jack/anne/max, mention of silvermadi, they're both writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: Combination fill for 2 & 4 from this lovely array of Jack/Flint prompts here:1. au (modern or pre-canon) where Flint is Jack’s co in the navy or otherwise responsible for training him, 2. modern au where they’re both writers but Flint is so much more successful gdi and what’s worse he doesn’t even seem to appreciate his success and is rude to his fans, 3. Eleanor sets them up together, 4. at Madi and Silver’s wedding, they’re drunk or at least Flint is, they never speak of it again.





	We Never Speak of This Again

“We never speak of this after tonight.” Flint rasps in his ear and all Jack can do is nod.

They’re in the alcove outside the main hall. The speeches are just about over when Flint gives him a look and slips from the table. Everyone else is focused on the happy couple and doesn’t notice.

Jack doesn’t stay for the cake cutting. He follows just-how-drunk-is-he-though-Flint across the hall to the elevator where Flint pins him to the wall and delivers that warning? Foreplay? Jack’s not sure which it’s meant to be.

It doesn’t truly matter what the words Flint utters are; all that matters is that he has issued a pre-coital statement and Jack has agreed and signed on the dotted line. They’re doing this; they’re not speaking of it, now where do they fuck?

Flint’s room apparently. The elevator ride is short and sweet, Jack slouches in the corner against the wall, watching Flint, half expecting him to change his mind.

Flint swipes the door and pushes it open, leaving Jack to follow, as he’s used to doing. It’s always Flint ahead of him, at author events and conventions, in magazines and reviews. Once in an article Jack’s work had been referred to as ‘earnesly derivative of James’s Flint’s elegant prose”. He’d complained about that review for a solid hour to Anne, but had kept it all the same. His name and Flint’s, side by side in print.

Well.

He doesn’t get that every day.

 *  *  *

There’s only the briefest moment where Jack considers backing out of this. There’s something about the way Flint sets his phone on the bureau, checking the time and his messages. Is he debating how long the reception will give them? Or is he thinking that John Silver has been married for exactly twenty minutes, eighteen minutes and counting?

He leans against the door, watching Flint.

“You know… if you talk to him, there is a more than likely chance you’ll still get to see each other.” He ventures, and by see each other, Jack does mean fuck. But he gathers Flint knows that bit already.

Flint stops and stares at him incredulously. “Are you seriously giving me relationship advice?”

Jack shrugs. “Why not?” He’s used to fucking gingers who long for other people and have to come to terms with that. Perhaps it’s his forte. Though not a particularly useful one. So far it’s mostly bred some ill-advised poetry which he once drunkenly read aloud to Max over the phone. It’s quite possibly the only secret the two of them share. Anne doesn’t need to know he rhymed ‘I am merely a man’ with her name.

“I’m well aware of…” Flint begins and then he shakes his head. “Not discussing this with you.”

Jack shrugs again. “All right.”

He’s said his bit, done his duty and all that. Now he waits.

Flint goes to the mini-bar and gets out a whiskey. He downs it one go and tosses the bottle at the waste can. Perfect basket. Jack gnaws his lower lip as he contemplates the precision of that arm.

And then Flint turns and looks at him, crossing the room to lean into him, one arm above Jack’s head, the other slipping into his pants as Flint’s tongue steals its way into his mouth.

He nudges his thigh against Jack’s, pressing into him until Jack’s breath surrenders its moan all on its own. His mouth tastes like Flint’s whiskey and he wants more of that tongue.

They don’t have to speak about it. Jack knows that. That’s the beauty of this whole situation. It requires nothing more than this, Flint here and him here as well and their bodies here together. Just the hunger in their limbs, need in their fingers. Restless, seeking, greedy, all of it. The room is filled with it, and Jack wants to close his eyes and just listen to the soft sounds of the sheets on the bed, their clothes brushing together, and the sound of Flint’s breath on his skin – ragged like he can’t hold back, can’t bear waiting another second.

“Lie still.” Flint says and Jack starts to ask why but then Flint merely pushes him back down on the bed so he can mouth along Jack’s dick.

So Jack lies back and exhales. Flint’s fingers bite into his thighs as he watches, wondering if there will be marks, a remembrance of this assignation, something he’ll catch sight of tomorrow when he uses the toilet and thinks of Flint.

And then he doesn’t think of anything but the heated velvet of Flint’s mouth and the powerful desire of his tongue, demanding everything from him. 

Flint draws off with a long lick along his cock. “Get your clothes off.”

“Yours too.” Jack says back and Flint shrugs and starts unbuttoning like it doesn’t matter whether Jack gets to see him or not. It matters though. To Jack.

Flint fumbles in his bag and just how prepared  _is_  he, coming back with condoms and lube that were in his laptop bag. This is a wedding after all, and with…Silver, well.

Flint glances at him as though he can guess the nature of Jack’s thoughts and the direction they’ve taken. He crawls atop Jack once more, kissing him again with precise and delicious urgency. Flint is a good kisser and Jack’s almost bitter about this as well (does he _have_  to be good at everything?), he would be, admittedly, if he weren’t enjoying it so much.

Flint inserts two well slicked fingers into him, knuckle deep straight off, and Jack bites his lip, swallowing down the embarrassing, revealing groan threatening to escape.

_“Christ.”_

“Too much?” Flint eyes him as he strokes deep.

“No.” Jack says. It’s just  _everything._

Even Flint’s fingers aren’t small, goddamnit. This isn’t the first time Jack’s had that thought, but now he has Flint’s actual cock for true comparison. He’s seen it before, once, in a men’s room at a convention, Flint pissing obliviously at the urinal next to him. Jack’s not been above jerking off to that particular memory, but that’s another secret no one needs to know. 

Flint pulls his fingers out and Jack waits, a little impatiently, but wanting to make it last at the same time.

FInally Flint slides into him with a slow thrust that makes Jack want to moan again, embarrassingly loud.  _This_  is why people go to weddings, to get well and truly fucked. He’s not above admitting it. 

They roll and Flint pins him to the bed, fists wrapped around his wrists, holding him there as he fucks into Jack with raw heated thrusts. Jack wraps his legs around Flint in retaliation, bringing him home. The bed hits the wall as they move. He hopes the people in the room next door can hear them. He hopes they complain to the management.

He matches Flint in stamina at least, but is still first to surrender and come, hips jerking and chest panting. Flint has wrapped his hand around his dick, stroking Jack in time with his thrusts, and oh, his hands, his skilled, well-calloused hands, hands that Jack has stared at time and time and time again, during signings, and interviews, where Flint prevaricates, the tic in his jaw ever present, fingers never still whether they rest on his thighs, or against his chin, or the arm of his chair.

They are touching Jack now, those hands, and he comes with an unabashedly loud groan. There is no holding it back this time and he doesn’t care.

Flint’s still hard, still inside him, and Jack knows how he want this to go. It’s his turn then, to roll them and pin Flint’s wrists to the bed.

Flint raises an eyebrow.

“Lie still.” Jack says, back to him, rising up and sinking back down upon Flint, rolling his hips as he takes Flint deep until Flint strains against his grasp but still holds back and obeys Jack. A heady swell of power fills him, and he could almost come again just from this and then Flint breaks free, fingers reaching for him, grasping his hips, pulling Jack closer to kiss him again, as he comes, shuddering, coming inside Jack.

Flint’s breath evens out and the room is silent, a morass of ambiguous exchanges existing within it that never need to be uttered.

“We should probably get back downstairs.” Flint says eventually and Jack nods in agreement.

Flint dresses there, while Jack carries his clothes into the bathroom to do so. It would be crass and sentimental to steal soap from the hotel room they fucked in, Jack tells himself and then does it anyway.

He puts the lavender soap in his pocket. He finds it later, bringing it absently to his nose as he writes, lavender filling his thoughts and scenting his memories of the time they shared.

*  *  *

A week later Jack’s phone buzzes and he shoves it to his ear while his eyes remain on his laptop screen, only removing the pencil from his mouth to say “Hello?” before replacing it.

“The Assignation?”

Jack drops the pencil. “What? It’s a perfectly good title.” He knows that’s not what Flint is upset about.

“We said we weren’t going to talk about it.” Flint hisses.

Jack can picture him perfectly as it so happens. The exact way Flint’s nose wrinkles and his lip curls in disgust. It’s a familiar expression.

“We didn’t talk about it. I wrote about it.” Jack points out. “And I didn’t mention any names.”

He had been careful.

Flint makes a scoffing noise. “Anyone who knows us could tell, you moron.”

“Does it bother you?” Jack says after a moment. “The idea that he’ll know?”

There’s a breath of silence, and then Flint hangs up.

Jack carefully sets his phone down and picks up his pencil again. There’s a tiny smile secreted in the corner of his mouth. He’s right, and they both know it.

  *  *  *

Two days later Flint texts Jack to meet him in a bar downtown and Jack does, curious. He slides onto the stool next to Flint and accepts an offer of a drink.

There’s a bruise sucked deep and dark on Flint’s neck, not quite hidden by his collar.

Jack grins into his scotch. If Flint is going to use him to make Silver jealous, well, he’s perfectly all right with that.


End file.
